Burning Inheritance Read online

  'Very well.'

  Diana had been with him too long to be offended by his outburst, but after she had rung off, Alex flung himself irritably into the leather diplomat chair at his desk. He could have given her an alternative number. He knew that eighteen months ago Isabel had joined the Ferry agency, and it would have been a simple matter to call Jason Ferry and have him locate Isabel for him. But that would have meant showing his hand to someone else besides Isabel, and he had no desire to advertise his mission. Mission Impossible, he thought glumly. He just hoped she hadn't gone off on some overseas assignment.

  Diana rang just then to let him know that his first appointment of the day had arrived, and realising he could not allow his frustration with Isabel Ashley to interfere with his work, he had her send the man in. What else could he do, after all? He would have to ring Isabel this evening. If, at that time, there was still no reply, he'd be perfectly at liberty to tell Robert that he hadn't been able to reach her.

  He had lunch with a graduate friend from Oxford, and he was quite glad that his afternoon was taken up with visiting a co-operative in East London. It was a free service he offered, in conjunction with a govern­ment-backed grant scheme, and the group presently running the small engineering company were more than willing to show him over the workshop. They wanted his advice about tax allowances, and his opinion concerning how much they could afford to invest in new machinery.

  'I bet that piece of machinery cost more than we'll make this year,' commented Brenda Jeffries, one of the technical trainees, who had taken over the paper­work, admiring Alex's Ferrari from the window of the first floor office. 'And you know,' she .added, turning so that he could appreciate her profile, 'I bet someone like you doesn't need a car to pull the birds. I don't suppose you need an assistant, do you, Mr Seton? I have had—secretarial experience.'

  'I'm sure you have,' Alex responded humorously, fitting his papers back into his briefcase. 'And if I discover we have a vacancy, I'll keep you in mind.'

  'You will?' Brenda's round blue eyes sparkled. 'I'll remind you of that next time you come.'

  'OK.' Alex walked towards the door. 'Just don't forget to tell Ted Ripley I'll be in touch, hmm? G'bye.'

  "Bye.'

  Brenda bestowed another wistful smile, and Alex's lips were twitching as he descended the flight of iron stairs to the yard below.

  But driving back to his office, his humour dissi­pated. 'Try that number again, will you, Diana?' he requested, as he crossed her office to his own, and then gritted his teeth impatiently when she asked, 'Which number?'

  'Isabel Ashley's, of course,' he retorted, and then, realising how unreasonable he was being, he sighed. 'I'm sorry. It's been a long day. Did you take a note of the number? It's------'

  'I have it here,' said Diana, unperturbed. 'Oh—and I've left some messages on your desk. Your cousin, Chris, has been ringing you on and off all afternoon.'

  'Chris?' Alex suppressed a groan. That was all he needed, for Chris to find out he was trying to see Isabel. In spite of his opposition to his uncle's request, he had to agree with Robert that Chris's seeing his ex-wife again was not a desirable proposition. 'What did you tell him?'

  'That you were out at Walthamstow, of course,' said Diana, pressing the buttons that made up Isabel's number. She smiled up at him. 'It's ringing now. Do you want to take it?'

  Alex hesitated, and then shook his head. 'I'll wait,' he said, suddenly convinced that Isabel would not be there. Nothing short of a personal confrontation was going to resolve this situation; he could feel it in his bones.

  But, amazingly, after a few moments, he heard the connection being made, and Diana looked up at him inquiringly. 'In my office,' he said, striding swiftly across the room, and her 'Miss Ashley? Hold on, will you? I have a call for you,' was terminated by the closing of his door.

  'Isabel?' He practically snatched up the phone, grimacing at the sudden acceleration of his pulse. He was out of condition, he told himself fiercely, admit­ting no other reason for his laboured breathing. Sinking down on to the corner of his desk, he drew a steadying gulp of air. 'Isabel, this is Alex—Seton. My uncle asked me to get in touch with you.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  The phone rang as Isabel was folding clothes into her suitcase. Jason, she thought immediately, unable to think of anyone else who might be ringing her at a quarter to five in the afternoon and, abandoning her packing, she went to answer it. Perhaps he was ringing to say the trip was off, she reflected hopefully, reaching for the receiver. A long weekend in Scotland at this particular point in her life was something she could have done without.

  The girl's voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar however. 'Miss Ashley?' she said. No one Jason employed would address her as 'Miss Ashley'. 'Hold on, will you? I have a call for you.'

  Isabel moistened her lips. All of a sudden, she was back in the intimidating splendour of the lawyer's office, hearing the dry tones of Virginia Denby's solic­itor telling her that she had inherited the old lady's shares in Denby Industries, and she instinctively knew that this call had something to do with that. Who else but Robert Seton would address her as Miss Ashley, losing no opportunity to underline his achievement in severing her connection with the Seton family?

  She was tempted to ring off without speaking to the man. His company solicitors had already been in touch with her own, offering to buy back the shares at a substantially increased premium, and she had told them she was not interested. Evidently Robert Seton was not satisfied with her answer. She knew he would do anything in his power to prevent her from seeing Chris again. If he only knew ...

  'Isabel?'

  Her hand trembled at the unwillingly familiar tones. She did not need his 'Isabel, this is Alex,' with 'Seton' added, almost as an afterthought, to identify her caller. Now she really wanted to slam down the receiver, and only the knowledge that Vinnie had expected more of her forced her to suffer his introduc­tion.

  'Alex,' she acknowledged "flatly. And then, with irony, 'What a surprise!'

  'Is it?' Unexpectedly, his voice was curt. 'Yes, well—Uncle Robert is out of the country at the moment, so he asked me to—stand in for him, so to speak.'

  'Who better?' put in Isabel caustically, and his intake of breath proved her gibe had found its mark.

  'Nevertheless,' he persisted, and she could tell it was an effort for him to control his temper, 'I wonder if it would be convenient for you to call in at my office tomorrow morning at—say------' She heard him flicking through the pages of his diary. 'Um—twelve-thirty?'

  'I'm afraid not.' The Scottish trip was suddenly very attractive to her. 'I shall be out of town for the next few days. The earliest I could see you would be—oh-—next Wednesday.'

  His impatience was almost palpable. 'Next Wednesday,' he echoed through his teeth. 'I see.'

  'It's the truth.' For some reason it was important that he should believe her. After all, the last thing she wanted was for him to think she was afraid to see him. Sooner or later, she would have to. She had accepted that when she accepted Vinnie's shares. 'I'm leaving for Perth first thing in the morning. I work for Jason Ferry now, and he's leased a castle over­looking Loch Tay for the weekend.' She crossed her fingers. 'It should be quite an exciting trip. I'm looking forward to it.'

  'In May?' Alex was sceptical. 'I hope you get to keep your clothes on.'

  Isabel's teeth dug into the soft skin of her lower lip. 'I always do,' she countered tautly. 'You should know that.'

  'People change,' he retorted carelessly, and she knew an overwhelming desire to slap his lean, sardonic face. 'In any case,' he continued, 'I should have thought your unexpected windfall would have enabled you to give up an occupation you always professed to dislike.'

  'Ah, but that was before I knew the Setons, Alex,' she declared maliciously. 'Compared to living with your family, photographic modelling is a breeze! And I wasn't working for Jason when I married Chris.' And let him make what he liked of that!

 
However, Alex let her remarks go without retalia­tion, and she wondered uneasily if she wasn't handling this badly. Surely she ought to be able to speak to him without resorting to insults. When she had first learned of Virginia Denby's generosity, she had deter­mined to face her erstwhile in-laws with dignity and discretion. Yet, here she was, on the verge of kicking and clawing, like the ambitious bitch he had always thought her.

  'Anyway,' she said now, adopting what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, 'I can't imagine why you should want us to meet. Any company business can surely be dealt with by my solicitors, and as you're not a member of the Denby board------'

  'I've just told you,' Alex interrupted her smoothly. 'My uncle has asked me to deal with the situation in his absence, and as you were, nominally at least, a member of the family, a less—shall we say, formal transaction seems appropriate.'

  Isabel's tawny brows drew together in some confusion. 'I'm afraid I—what particular transaction are you talking about?'

  She heard him sigh. 'What transaction do you think I mean?' he enquired evenly.

  'I don't know.' She frowned. 'Are there some papers I should have read and haven't?'

  'Papers?' Alex snorted. 'Look, let's stop playing with words, shall we? I mean the shares, of course. Lady Denby's shares. You do remember them, don't you?'

  Isabel's hand sought the cushioned back of her rocking-chair. Almost objectively, she admired the peach-coloured lacquer of her nails, that were such a subtle contrast to the dark green velvet of the cushion, but all the while her brain was racing with the turmoil of her thoughts.

  'Are you still there?'

  Her silence had initiated the question, and shaking her head in an effort to clear her reasoning, she said quietly, 'I thought I had made my position plain. Your grandmother left those shares to me. I—I intend to respect her wishes.'

  There was a brief, but charged, pause, and then Alex said harshly, 'So why am I speaking with you now?'

  Isabel swallowed. She could have asked him the same question. Indeed, if his uncle had asked him to contact her, it might be difficult for him to find a convincing answer. Or maybe it had been his idea. Just what was he playing at? Surely he didn't imagine he could trick her into handing the shares over. Her face burned at the thought that he might think he could succeed where his uncle had failed.

  'Maybe you should ask yourself that,' she retorted now, refusing to be daunted by the prospect of his anger, but she could almost feel his antagonism.

  'What is that supposed to mean?' he enquired, with biting coldness, and throwing caution to the winds, she told him.

  'You never could keep away from me, could you, Alex?' she taunted. 'That's what made you so mad. The fact that I had married Chris, when you were still available!'

  She put the receiver down then, without waiting for his response. Whatever it was, whatever form his counter-attack might take, she had no wish to hear it, and she hoped that by the time she came back from Scotland, the whole thing would have blown over. It was obviously an attempt to get her to think again about the advisability of retaining the shares, and she wondered if, in spite of his oft-professed determination not to get involved in Denby business, Alex had finally accepted his heritage. After all, his mother had been a Denby, and he was too like his uncle to ignore the family trait.

  Shaking her head, dismissing the faint feeling of unease that still lingered, Isabel walked back into the next room to continue her packing. The suitcase she intended to take with her was open on the bed, and she struggled to remember what she had put in and what she hadn't. The phone call had distracted her, and it was difficult to concentrate on a mundane chore like packing when her brain was still troubled by the things Alex had said. Nevertheless, she had to be ruthless and put all thoughts of the Seton family to the back of her mind, even if Alex's call had rekindled all her doubts about the legacy.

  The suitcase wasn't full when she had completed her task, but although she and the other models would be away for five days, most of the time would be spent wearing the clothes sent by the agency. All she really needed was a couple of gowns suitable for evening wear, some casual gear and her toothbrush. Even her make-up would be put on by an expert, and her own selection of creams and eye make-up slotted easily into the canvas tote bag she carried..

  Moving across to the mirrored vanity unit, Isabel made a half-hearted attempt to sort out the perfumes she intended to take with her. Her favourite, by Nina Ricci, she wore all the time, but for evenings she preferred something a little heavier. However, her attention was soon diverted by the image of her hands in the mirror, and resisting the urge to turn away, she let her gaze drift upward.

  How long was it since any of the Setons had seen her, she wondered, running her fingertips along the line of her cheekbones. Three years? Four? Or was it longer? Certainly, it was all of four years since she had severed her connection with the family. Four years! It seemed a lifetime. So much had happened, and there had been so much she wanted to forget.

  Smoky grey eyes encountered their reflection in the mirror, and she glimpsed a fleeting shadow in their depths. But the shadow was quickly banished, erased by a determination not to betray any emotion, even to herself, and instead she acknowledged their dark-lashed beauty. Her eyes had always been her best attribute and, together with features of reasonable attractiveness, had made her living, if not her fortune. Her nose was long, but at least it was straight, and high cheekbones could be a bane, particularly if she allowed herself to get too thin. After the divorce, her face had looked almost angular, and it had taken many months before the hollows filled out again. Her mouth was too wide, the upper lip too narrow, the lower lip too full. But it parted over teeth that were square and white and even, and Jason always said it had a sexy curve.

  She grimaced now. Jason would say anything to get his own way, and lately he had revealed a totally unexpected possessiveness where she was concerned.

  She hoped it wasn't going to become a problem. She liked Jason. She was grateful to him for giving her the chance to re-establish her career after her marriage failed. But she didn't love him. She didn't love anyone. Love was an emotion she couldn't afford. She had tried it once and it was far too destructive.

  It was almost six and, deciding she deserved a cup of coffee, she walked back into the living-room and through it to the kitchen. The apartment was not large. In many ways it was small and inconvenient, in that all the rooms led out of one another, a fact which afforded little privacy when she had guests. But she lived alone, the place was hers, and mostly she didn't mind its shortcomings. It was the first real home she had known, and certainly it was the first home she had ever owned.

  She had been brought up in a children's home. Her mother had abandoned her when she was only a few days old, and the somewhat ugly little girl she had become had not attracted would-be adoptive parents. She had always been tall for her age, and her long skinny limbs had contrasted unfavourably with those of smaller, chubbier children. In addition to which, red hair did not seem to find approval among the home's visitors, and the tight braids it was always confined in had accentuated her naturally pale skin. She had never looked strong, and the fact that she was as healthy as an ox had not convinced anyone. It wasn't until she was about fourteen, and her body began to fill out, that people's opinion started to change. The carroty hair had mellowed with age into a rich, dark red, the thin features had acquired a narrow-boned beauty, and the long, awkward limbs had become shapely and elegant. The ugly duckling had turned into a swan, and the trustees at the children's home didn't quite know what to do with her.

  She supposed it was natural that she should turn to modelling as a career. In that respect she had been lucky, for one of the governors of the home had had connections with one of the larger model agencies in the city, and by the time she was twenty, she was fairly well established in commercial advertising. And then, she had met Chris, they had got married, and in her innocence, she had imagined they would live happily ever af
ter. How wrong she had been ...

  The sound of her doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Strangely enough, it was not the intercom from down­stairs, that visitors usually used to gain access to the building. It was the bell attached to her front door. And although she realised her caller could be one of her fellow tenants, she had purposely kept aloof from the occupants of the other apartments. It wasn't that she was unfriendly. But her privacy was important to her. That was why a troubled expression entered her eyes as she heard the bell peal again.

  She wasn't prepared for visitors, she fretted, glancing down at the sloppy yellow track suit she had worn home from the gym. Her feet were bare, her face was devoid of any make-up, and the tangled mass of her hair would need a thorough brushing to tame it. She had intended to do her packing, give herself a facial, enjoy a long luxurious soak in the bath, and then eat a snack supper as she watched the late film. Who could possibly expect to thwart her plans? She could only think of Jason, and her lips compressed impa­tiently as she walked towards the door.

  Even so, it paid to be cautious and, attaching the chain, she called, 'Who is it?' before releasing the latch.

  There was a moment's silence, during which time she wondered if her caller had given up and gone away. But if it was Jason, she knew better than to believe that this was so, and waiting for his answer, she expelled a heavy sigh.

  'Isabel?' said a voice at last, and although it was male, it was definitely not Jason's. He did not have that distinctive timbre to his tones, nor did his voice send a wave of shocked resentment sweeping over her. 'Open the door! We didn't finish our conversation.'

  Isabel swallowed, turning to press her shoulders against the panels. Alex! Here! She couldn't believe it.

  'Isabel!'

  The edge to his voice was unmistakable, and she thought how typical it was of all the Setons, that they should believe she would jump to their tune. Did Alex really believe that by side-stepping the building's security system, he could barge in here, uninvited? He was totally intractable, and too arrogant to be true.